


Say It

by AugustAri



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustAri/pseuds/AugustAri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short post-Reichenbach fic. I want to add more to it, finish out the porny stuff, but I'm not great at that.<br/>Written for beautifullyheeled's prompt “Please say you love me”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beautifullyheeled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/gifts).



It had been 26 minutes since John had spoken. Sherlock didn’t mean to count, but he couldn’t help it. The seconds ticked away in his mind like a metronome. John sat on the couch beside Sherlock, but as far away as possible, with both hands clutching the sofa’s arm.  
Twenty-six minutes ago, Sherlock had stood at the door to the flat after being away for three years – after John thinking him dead for three years. John had said, “Sherlock,” as the tall man entered. And then, “It’s you,” as he touched Sherlock lightly on the shoulder, as if to check that he were real.  
Then John had turned swiftly and sat down on the couch, staring straight ahead and looking as though he were fighting off the urge to be sick.  
Sherlock wasn’t surprised. He had known that this wasn’t going to be easy, and he had prepared himself to remain calm in any situation. He joined John and the couch and began to speak. He spoke as slowly as he could at first, trying his best not to overwhelm John, but he naturally sped up to his frenetic pace as he described why he had faked his death and where he had been for the past three years.  
John never showed any sign of wanting to speak, but eventually there was nothing more to say, so Sherlock fell silent. The only sound in the room was John’s heavy breathing. Sherlock stared at him, his bright blue eyes shining slightly, tears lying in wait.  
“John,” he said softly. The doctor didn’t move. “John,” Sherlock repeated more forcefully. “How do I fix this?”  
John looked down at the arm of the sofa and picked at the loose threads. He sighed and swallowed hard, but still said nothing.  
Twenty-seven minutes. Sherlock was back – he had finally returned from three hellish years – and his only friend in the world refused to speak to him. He thought he might explode from the injustice of it all.  
“What can I do?” Sherlock asked desperately. “I did it for you, John.” His voice cracked on John’s name. “And I came back. I came home.”  
Silence.  
Twenty-eight minutes.  
With a strangled gasp, Sherlock threw himself off of the couch and knelt in front of John. He frantically pressed his hands to John’s knees and said – begged – “Anything. Anything, John. What can I do?”  
Finally John met Sherlock’s gaze. He blinked slowly, his face still impassive. “Say it,” he whispered. “Please say you love me.”  
Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and a single tear finally escaped and rolled down his cheek. He reached out and held both of John’s hands in his.   
“I love you.”  
At Sherlock’s words, John burst into tears – harsh, angry tears. He pulled his hands from Sherlock’s grasp and put his face in his palms as his shoulders shook with heavy sobs.  
It had been twenty-nine minutes since Sherlock had walked into the flat when he climbed back on the couch and threw his arms around John. John leaned into the embrace, burying his face into Sherlock’s neck.   
Thirty minutes. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.  
John pulled back and stared into Sherlock’s eyes. He wiped his own eyes and cheeks, and gave a shaky smile.   
Sherlock reached out and put his hand on John’s neck, pulling him in. Their lips touched for the first time, a gentle, chaste kiss.   
“Sherlock…” John breathed. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and down his back. His smile grew bigger and almost devilish, and he attacked. The doctor pressed his lips against the detective’s with great force. He used his tongue to ply open Sherlock’s lips. His moist tongue lapped desperately against Sherlock’s. John moaned as he had his first taste of Sherlock.  
Sherlock returned John’s fervor, scratching his nails down John’s back. As their tongues intertwined, Sherlock pressed their chests together. He could feel John’s heartbeat. He sighed deeply.  
As his arousal grew, John pushed Sherlock down on the couch so that the detective was lying on his back, his hair mussed and his slender neck exposed. John climbed on top of him, one leg straddled over each side. John was rock hard and straining against his jeans. He rocked his hips forward and found that Sherlock was equally aroused.   
Sherlock whimpered and reached out to unzip John’s fly. John batted him away and, somewhat violently, unzipped Sherlock’s trousers and yanked them down to his mid thigh. John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock’s hips bucked involuntarily as he moaned.   
“Say it again,” John commanded.  
Sherlock licked his lips and smiled. “I love you.”   
John grinned, satisfied, and pulled down Sherlock’s pants, exposing him. He slid down so that his mouth was dangerously close to Sherlock’s cock. He breathed against it.  
“I love you, too,” he said.  
“I deduced as much.”


End file.
